Bitter Drink (4 page)

2 OUNCES LIGHT RUM

COLA (USUALLY COKE)

2–3 DROPS LIME JUICE

1 LIME SLICE

S
erve one to two parts rum in a highball glass with plenty of ice. Fill the rest of the glass with cola. Add the drops of lime juice and stir. You can garnish with a slice of lime. One of Compay Segundo’s songs wouldn’t hurt, either.

This drink was born during the Cuban War of Independence in 1895, when the American soldiers who fought against the Spanish army created it to toast their triumph, crying out “CUBA LIBRE! Long live free Cuba!”

The Cuba libre combines the emblematic beverages of the two nations: Cuban rum and American cola. After Cuba was engulfed by the Communist revolution and then suffered a decades-long US embargo, it became more difficult to assemble the drink. One of the new Cuban government’s priorities was to create something
similar, a drink that did not require Coca-Cola, a symbol of capitalist oppression, as one of its main ingredients. Today this drink is enjoyed in its original form in both the United States and Cuba, proving that alcohol can bridge all political differences.

__________________

I arrived in Puerto Vallarta after passing through the historic town of Tepic. The small highway south of Tepic snaked its way across what seemed like the entire Sierra Madre mountain chain. By the time I reached the coast, my Woody was going so slow through the little fishing towns that half-naked kids were able to hawk their fruit, dried shrimp, and macaroons as I drove. From the looks of all of these industrious eight-year-olds, this was no longer the virgin territory peddled by the guidebook I’d bought. Numerous other cars loaded with children were cruising that same provincial highway in search of a beach getaway. The ad hoc roadside commerce was merely a response to the new global economy: if there was something for sale, it was because someone else was buying.

Passing through the town of Bucerias near the Jalisco state line, I caught my first glimpse of beautiful Banderas Bay. One of the largest bays in the world, it’s frequented by famous people like Cantinflas, Maria Felix, and the president himself, as well as some who aren’t so famous, like humpback whales, dolphins, and the odd tourist.

Puerto Vallarta is located on the bay’s inner coastline. Houses spill across the green foothills as if they are trying
to reach the peak. But they never do. Only one or two make it even halfway to the top. Vallarta possesses not only natural beauty but the vernacular ambience of a stereotypical Mexican town, the kind foreigners like. The only thing missing is the Indian in a poncho and big sombrero leaning against a cactus.

Of course, there aren’t any cacti in Puerto Vallarta. Quite the opposite. The vegetation is so thick and lush you wonder why God didn’t share it with the rest of the country. This just might be His favorite place. He gave it beaches, jungles, and beautiful women. I guess even God can be selfish.

The main streets are cobblestone, the rest dirt. The urban layout is so simple a child could have designed it: three long streets run parallel to the beach, and the rest head straight to it. A few church steeples peer timidly out from between the red tile roofs and verdant treetops. Modern buildings of a respectable height stand out like mariachis in a jazz band. A decent airport is located a few miles out of town where visitors arrive in search of sun, sea, and cheap drinks.

The locals hurry to escape the sun’s rays, seeking the shade of eaves, but the tourists can be easily identified by their beautiful ocher tones—the women by curves so pronounced they attract the attention of passersby like iron attracts magnets.

If that same selfish God did create Adam and Eve, no doubt they’re in a hotel lobby here having a rum and Coke with lime.

There are several convenient hotels, but most of the film workers were lodged in bungalows on the set. Even so, no
rooms were available. The place was swarming with US and Mexican journalists who’d congregated with their cameras in bars, hoping to get a cover shot for
Life
magazine. I hadn’t imagined the level of euphoria that Liz Taylor’s relationship with Richard Burton would cause. Everyone it seemed was completely obsessed with the couple. Since the filming of
Cleopatra
in Rome, everything seemed to revolve around these two, never mind the fact that both were still married. I guess infidelity is headline material these days.

I finally secured a room at the Rio Hotel, though I had to give the manager a huge tip to inspire him to evict a noisy reporter from the
Excelsior
. I wanted to raise my expense quota.

My room had a balcony that looked out onto the street, and when I threw the window open wide, I could see the Cuale River, which divided the city in half.

I turned on the fan and ordered two rum and Cokes with plenty of ice from room service. The heat was so unbearable that even the palm trees were panting. All of them. Every single leaf. But it wasn’t the heat that got to you here, it was the humidity.

I thought back to the old gringo from the bar in Mazatlán. Something wasn’t quite right, like the uneasy feeling of having a piece of food caught between your teeth. And then it struck me: I’d never said I was coming to Puerto Vallarta. How’d he known where I was headed?

I emptied both glasses, one after another, without breathing.

TEQUILA

2 CUPS ORANGE JUICE

3 TABLESPOONS TABASCO SAUCE OR POWDERED CHILI PEPPERS

¼ CUP LIME JUICE

2 CUPS TOMATO JUICE

2 TABLESPOONS MINCED ONION

SALT AND PEPPER

2 TABLESPOONS WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE

1 LIME SLICE

M
ix together all ingredients except for the tequila, seasoning with salt and pepper to taste. Serve in a tall shot glass. Serve the tequila in another shot glass, accompanied by a slice of lime. The music of mariachi Pedro Infante will help it go down smoothly.

Born in the city of Tequila, Jalisco, in the early twentieth century, sangrita, a traditional chaser for shots of tequila, was popular among rich hacienda owners who cultivated the maguey plant from which mezcal is distilled. Invented by Romero’s widow, sangrita takes away the strong alcoholic flavor of tequila so you can better appreciate the taste of the spirit.

In time, sangrita became an obligatory accompaniment for tequila, its feminine side, if you will. A sip of tequila is taken, followed by one of sangrita. Few drinks mix together so sublimely inside the mouth.

__________________

There was no highway leading to the movie set; the commute was either made by donkey or by sea. All the supplies, equipment, and material had to be transported in
panga
motorboats, which set out from a small dock in Puerto Vallarta on Playa de los Muertos: Dead Man’s Beach. Bad name for a beach. Bad name for anything. Especially if you’re the dead man.

I caught a
panga
to Mismaloya along with some people who were working on the film. Our little boat skirted the scenic coastline, passing by places no modern man had ever set foot on. Not that I think many modern men are too interested in setting their feet someplace so filled with mosquitoes and vermin.

We reached a spot where two big islands, large and steep, emerged from the sea.

“They call it Los Arcos. That’s where all the birds nest,” the
panga
captain told me. And indeed, these islands seemed to be a popular spot; an infinite number of birds flew around them: seagulls, pelicans, frigate birds, and other fish thieves. As the
panga
approached the shore, the birds rose up in cacophonous flight.

A few minutes later, the
panga
reached a small beach, pleated like a sheet. Next to it, on a crag, was a colonial-style edifice right out of a Speedy Gonzales cartoon. We’d arrived at
The Night of the Iguana.

We disembarked on a dock built at the foot of the rocks, and then climbed a steep staircase that had been built between the outcroppings in an attempt to make this lost corner of the world more habitable. A great flurry of activity greeted me once I reached the plateau. Dozens of people moved back and forth, like a colony of ants, carrying, dragging, or delivering things. Just a typical day on a film set.

I bumped into a man wearing a sky-blue guayabera and creased linen pants that were so smooth they walked on their own. He sported several days of stubble and several years of receding hairline. I guessed he was one of the production assistants, as he clutched a thick stack of papers to his chest like it was his virginity.

“I’m looking for Mr. Stark,” I ventured.

“If you hurry, you can catch a plane to Los Angeles, darling. He won’t be here until next week,” he answered me in Spanish tinged with a touch of Pasadena playboy.

“Mr. Huston?” I tried again.

“Sure you want to see him? He hasn’t filmed anything since yesterday. He just might swallow you whole.”

“If I can’t have the big boys, I’ll settle for you. I’m the security guy. Mr. Stark told me to show up here.”

Sky-Blue Shirt smiled. He turned around, signaling back to me. He didn’t shake my hand or introduce himself. He was no gentleman. But then, no one in Movieland was.

“Follow me,” he replied. “They’ve been expecting you since last week. Did you make a wrong turn in Tijuana?”

I followed my new acquaintance, who swayed his hips so much it looked like he was dancing a rumba. His style was unmistakable—of the Rock Hudson/Sal Mineo variety.

“You got a name? Or should I use ‘Hey, you!’ like everyone else?” I asked.

“Gorman, honey. But if you want to play rough, you can call me some other name.”

I smiled. I liked it when pretty boys flirted with me. “Sunny Pascal. Are you the production assistant?”

“Costumes, makeup, scenery, or the guy who brings Miss Lyon her cookies and milk. Today I’m busy handing out scripts. Want one?”

“Not a bad idea, although I already know how the story ends,” I said, taking the script Gorman offered. “Is it any good?”

“Nothing you couldn’t buy for a song on Sunset Boulevard. Maybe a couple of Oscar nominations. Not best picture or best screenplay,” Gorman replied. He was obviously quite the film critic.

When we reached the bar on the set, the stars and production crew were taking a break, escaping the blazing heat.

Gorman introduced me to the production assistant, the director’s assistant, and another assistant of some kind. They didn’t even turn to look at me. I was no more than a contractual obligation to them, a burden imposed on them by Mr. Stark. Nothing more.

The last assistant I met told Gorman he should see to it I had everything I needed. Looks like Mr. Gorman just got promoted from milk-and-cookies boy to my new production liaison. I don’t know if he saw it as a promotion or not; he merely winked at me.

“And what’s your job here supposed to be, bloodhound?” Gorman asked.

“I thought you might be able to tell me that,” I replied, taking a seat at the bar so I could take in the scenery.

“Seems to me you just won the lottery,” Gorman said, taking a seat next to me. “Nothing’s going to happen here. Maybe some yelling or a catfight. Just some material for
The
Hollywood Reporter
.”

The barman was busy preparing some virgin drinks to be distributed among the extras. I wondered how far my influence as “the security guy” would stretch.

“You want something to drink, Gorman?”

“Tequila sunrise, darling,” he purred, then turned to the barman, and snapped, “Don’t be stingy with the cherries.”

“A martini,” I told the barman, then added, “I’m in charge of security.”

The barman hesitated, but then turned and started working on the order. In the movies you don’t bet on someone’s looks, you bet on their name tag—a clear chain of command stretching back to Lumière.

“If you let me in on what’s going on around here, I’ll buy you another round,” I offered Gorman.

He produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with all the masculinity of Katharine Hepburn and lit one up. He took one long pull, and half of it turned to ash before my eyes.

“The movie has got to be finished in less than three months. I don’t foresee any difficulties. No special effects, not many extras. It’s a filmed theatrical play, darling. We just have to pray the weather will be merciful. But the weather has no mercy at all; she can be a real bitch.”

“How many are there?”

“Members of staff? One hundred and twenty people. Almost all of them are housed in the bungalows. They built us bathrooms, living rooms, dining rooms…It’s like a hotel.”

“What about local workers?” I asked.

“Tarascan Indians. They live in a village on the beach, fishing and catching iguanas. Now they’re the construction crew.”